So Long Ago
by Meatball42
Summary: He's tens of thousands of years old, and he wonders exactly how much he's forgotten.


**Author's Note: Inspired in part by 'Move Along' by the All-American rejects, and also by the COE fics I've been reading lately- too sad! Hate and deny COE!**

[*]

He tried to ignore it, but that really wasn't him. He was always the sort to cling to something long past the time when all hope was gone, when there was no real chance of coming out the other side. His entire long, long life, that hadn't changed. Part of him wondered, on those late nights when he'd stare out into deep space through the windows of his ship, whether the past that he remembered was really his. All those friends he joked about with his crew, the adventures and exploits he'd laughed about with hundreds, thousands of people, were they real? Or were they just clever stories he'd come up with millennia ago and had told so many times that even he couldn't separate the truth from the fiction?

These were the thoughts he tried to avoid. Along with them, the knowledge that there were things he could no longer remember, people he'd loved and lost and promised himself to never forget. People he had, eventually, forgotten. How many moments, when had he seen something precious in their faces and sworn to himself that this, _this_ was what he was living for, what he would never let go of, how many of those had he lost?

These ponderings came to him in the early hours of the morning, when his crew was sleeping in their bunks, leaving the ship on autopilot to take them to the next star system, thousands of light-years away. He would gaze into the depths of the universe and sometimes, when his eyes would go fuzzy and his memories surfaced, he'd fall into faint half-dreams of times when his existence made sense. When he, maybe not _knew_ why he was the way he was, but at least it didn't bother him. When there was something to survive, to keep going _for._

_The Doctor… he hadn't seen his old friend in about eight hundred years. He kept track, even if part of him wished he could forget. The Doctor was one of the few people he knew there was no chance of him ever forgetting. Once upon a time, the Doctor had been the reason why he kept going. Back before he knew that he was going to exist forever. He'd gotten used to the idea now. It still scared the permanently-living hell out of him, but he'd accepted it._

_Now was one of the periods in his life when he was drifting. His current ship, his job, his crew, they were… enjoyable. Fun, even, at times. There was a certain amount of camaraderie, joking, but there was something missing. Something that he'd felt missing for at least the last ten thousand years. He was proud to say he remembered that far back, at least. He felt like he'd been drifting the whole time, searching for something that he couldn't remember._

_Every so often, he'd wish he could end it all, when he wasn't distracted by responsibility or adventure. He'd have a great time, the great time would end and eventually he'd feel as though there was no point. Often, the feeling would come right after the death of one of the numerous friends that seemed to gravitate to him wherever he went. Too bad he wasn't less likeable, or maybe he wouldn't lead them all to their deaths, he thought to himself during those times._

_But every time, when he'd raced away from whichever system he'd temporarily found refuge in, a few memories would resurface. "The end is where we start from," was one of them. Something he'd said, so long ago. Far too long to remember why he'd said it or who he'd said it to. But he'd remember a voice. A composed, slightly gravelly voice that would talk to him with a reserved yet open tone, telling him that whatever had happened to make him run wasn't his fault, or gently chastising him when it was. The voice was soft but strong and it comforted him, and it made him ache for the love and acceptance that were so tangible in its beautiful vowels. It had become his conscience and his common sense, the few times it pointed out something right in front of his face that he should've already seen._

_Sometimes, the worst times, when he drifted off while staring out his window and contemplating the hell that was his life, he could see eyes to go with the voice. They were looking at him sadly, rebuking him for his melancholy, yet joking and telling him it would be alright. He wanted to cling to the vision, but as soon as he tried it would drift away. All he could remember was to keep going, to find something that made him happy and accepted, that fulfilled him._

_He hated not remembering who the voice belonged to, when he was so sure it was one of those people he'd promised not to forget. He hated not remembering with all the passion he'd felt in his too long life. But he was never one to give up, so he kept trying to do what the voice wanted for him, to find that something that made him happy._


End file.
